Mending the Breach
by Preddlebunny
Summary: Heartbroken, scarred and sick of the politics, the Inquisitor has disappeared and retreated into a dark place inside herself in fear of what she might become. Seeing Solas in her dreams, running from assassins and her troubles, the Inquisition needs her back or Thedas will tear itself apart trying to find her. Cullen/Inquisitor, Solas/Inquisitor. Rated Heavy M in later chapters


The hunter had been remarkably quiet during his approach. He had been trained well, perhaps too well for his own good. His other victims must have never seen him coming. They never did. His steps were feathery light, with barely the slightest crunch heard, as the wind swirled and danced through the thick, green trees overhead and the call of birds echoed off the thick tree trunks.

Daven was his name, and he had trained with a small mercenary band based in Ferelden since he was 11. They were called The Denerim Avengers, not his choice of name if he were given an opinion. The contract was an unusual undertaking. He wasn't given a name, just a location and a description. 'Red-head, tattooed female elf', the description read next to the horrible drawing of the she-elf. Daven chuckled inwardly, hopefully there weren't too many of those in the northeastern half of The Emerald Graves.

The assassin stuck to the shadows of the trees that stretched with the coming sunset. His footfalls and breaths mingled with the natural sounds of the coming night. Up ahead, through the sparsely dense brush, he could make out the cabin. Smoke wisped from an opening in the top. The contract must be preparing her evening meal. This might be easier than he thought. She must have been some lover who ran away, or a witch-thief. Hopefully, without the witch part. He hated dealing with mages, and he had dealt with his fair share; hence the massive burn marks on his right arm.

Daven drew his daggers and was about to skirt around a massive tree trunk, in order to get a better view, when something pierced his calf through his sturdy leather armor. The assassin didn't so much as feel the pain until he looked down and a very well built black arrow was pinning his lower shin to the tree at his right. He cried out with a curse as the pain surged through the damaged tendon and up his bone.

He drew his daggers up; preparing to throw them at whatever had snared him when another pair of arrows shot them straight out of his hand, scraping skin and muscle in the process.

"Fuuuuuck!" he cried out, and ripped the arrow from his shin. Hastily he drew his slightly smaller pair of knives from his waistline. This was the first time he'd been ambushed before a kill. He looked up, projecting where the arrows fell from, as a figure jumped down and kicked him back into the tree. His head smacked against the rough bark and two more arrows were fired into both of his shoulders, pinning him there.

"You've made it further than any of the others", the voice said melancholically. "They usually run when given the chance." Daven looked up, gritting his teeth. There before him stood what his contract described. Dark red hair tied up in a messy bun, skin as dark as the evening forest and riddled with tattoos of the Dalish elves. A massive scar ran from the tip of what was left of her eyebrow, down her cheek and neck. She wore a simple, long sleeved pale shirt and a pair of hunter's pants and no shoes as if she was preparing to bed down before he arrived.

He struggled against the arrows pinning him, but each movement shot searing pain throughout his upper body. "Boody, knife-eared bi-", quicker than he could blink she had another arrow knocked, drawn back and pressed against his nose.

"You think you shems would come up with a new nickname for us", she pressed the arrow, drawing a bead of blood. "Who are you working for?"

Daven chuckled, "It doesn't matter, there's too many of us and only one of you. If there's a contract on your head from us, you might as well let me stick you now."

The elf noted his Ferelden accent. _Denerim Avengers_, she concluded. Furrowing her brows she snarled, "Do you even know who I am? Who they've seen you all the way to Orlais to kill? Or do you follow orders blindly like the good Ferelden dog you are?"

"Doesn't matt-" The arrow released with a sharp twang and found its mark between his eyes. His words died with the sound of nature in presence of death: a still echo. The birds and wolves fell silent for only a moment before resuming their nightly chant.

Taryn shook her head at the slump and snatched a document from his person.

_Daven, _

_Cabin in the northeastern part of the Emerald Graves. Red-headed, tattooed, female elf. Kill on sight. Don't return until it's done._

She let loose a disappointed sigh, no names, just a description. They weren't even telling their assassins who she was. Of course they wouldn't, she concluded. They would consider it suicide to even think about killing her. No one would take the contract.

The body fell down in a heap when the elf yanked her precious arrows free. She whispered the slightest of prayers as she did so. He _was_ the true victim here after all. Unaware of what he got himself into and made cannon fodder for those who were less brave.

The predators of the night began to stir as the smell of human blood wafted through the breeze. She smiled and left the body to be of some useful purpose to nature: whether it be the fungus, bugs or wolves. She would come back in the morning and bury what was left next to all the others. Taryn wasn't an animal.

After all, the dead needed their rest.


End file.
